Randy cracks a sheepish grin. “That was pretty bad, wasn’t it?”

  “Uh, yeah.”

  He brushes a few strands of hair, imaginary or not, away from my cheek. “I’m a little greedy when it comes to you.” He traces the edge of my jaw, the pad of his thumb sweeping my bottom lip.

  “I’m aware.”

  Prior to me, Randy had seen lots of women naked. I thought I had a thick skin until I started dating him. As the girlfriend of an NHL player, I get personal messages from his former conquests about how they’re a way better lay than I am, among other fun things. It was shocking at first, but at least I have friends who get what I’m going through.

  I’ve had a total of five sexual partners, including Randy. I’m assuming Randy’s had at least ten times that. Maybe it should bother me, but it doesn’t. Now that we’ve decided to be together, he’s never given me a reason to worry about him being unfaithful. His dad’s history of cheating isn’t one he wants to repeat.

  “You still have a few minutes before you have to be on the ice, right?” he asks.

  “I should get out there soon, but yeah.”

  Randy makes a noise but doesn’t respond with words, which is sometimes his way. He’s very much an action man. I knew he loved me a long time before he said the words out loud. All the little sacrifices, all the sweet things that come unprovoked are perfect examples of how he feels. And I feel the same way. But I don’t think he’s here to tell me he loves me. Not based on the gleam in his eye or the bulge making an appearance in his pants.

  “What’s up?” I pat the hard lump under the jeans. “Other than moody dick.”

  He covers my hand with his. “Wanna have a quickie?”

  “I don’t have enough minutes for that.” I put my palm on his chest when he leans in. My resistance to Randy’s advances is minimal, even with time constraints.

  “I can be superfast. I bet you’re halfway to coming already.” A smirky grin tugs the side of his mouth. That smile used to infuriate me. Occasionally it still does.

  Randy may be right; he has the incredible ability to get me off with very little physical contact. He’s rather cocky about it. Being in a public locker room where someone could walk in any second should be a deterrent. But it really isn’t—for either of us. Also, Randy takes much longer to come than I do. It’s one of the positive side effects of the accident he had when he was a kid—the one that nearly robbed him of half of his amazing cock—and I have my doubts he’ll be able to get off in under ten. His record is twelve minutes, and he was just crazy excited; it was the first time we went without a condom. Now he’s gotten used to going in bare, so his longevity is astounding.

  “There’s no way you’ll come before I have to get on the ice, and then we have to sit in a car with Sunny and Miller. You’ll have to behave yourself for two hours with blue balls. How pleasant is that going to be for you?”

  “I’m already gonna have blue balls, so it’s not like it actually matters if I come. I can take care of myself after I take care of you.”

  I’m straddling the bench, so he plants a knee between my legs and leans forward. At the same time, he twines his fingers into the hair at the nape of my neck, angling my head back as if he’s planning to kiss me.

  “You can’t wait until we get to the cottage to get me off?” It’s taking a superhuman amount of self-restraint not to shift against his strategically placed knee.

  “I can, but I don’t want to.” He drops his head so his mouth is close to mine. “Come on, luscious. You send me all these pictures of you in your skating gear; now you’re gonna deny me what you’ve been enticing me with for the past four hours?”

  He smells fantastic, like the cologne I bought him for Valentine’s Day. “You asked for those pictures.”

  “I know. Now I want to thank you for them by making you come.”

  “How are you planning to make me come?” It’s a challenge to remember why this isn’t a great idea with him looking so good and talking about giving me orgasms.

  “How ’bout with my fingers?”

  “I’m fully dressed.”

  “Like that’s ever stopped me before.”

  He has a point. He can make me come just by rubbing up on me. Our chemistry is ridiculous.

  I finally give in when he kisses me. I should feel bad that I’m about to receive an orgasm at work, in the changing room, but Randy’s good at persuasion, and providing pleasure, so it’s hard to feel anything other than excitement.

  He brings his knee forward, and I start grinding on him right away.

  I can hear his smile. “That’s it; take what you want, baby.”

  I nip at his lip, aware he’s playing with me. I’ll get him back later. He slips his tongue in my mouth and starts a slow, stroking rhythm that in no way matches the slightly desperate way I’m grinding against his knee. Randy has that effect. He knows it, and he likes to use it to his advantage.

  His hand stays where it is, cradling my head as we kiss. I keep rolling my hips, wishing he was hitting my special spot with a more precise body part, such as the fingers he talked about. I reach between us and palm him—he’s extra hard—through his pants. Now I wish actual sex was an option not impeded by the barrier of clothing, which I’m beginning to think is part of his master plan.

  Randy enjoys getting me all amped up and then leaving me hanging—well, not totally. I always get to come, but he won’t, and I don’t like the inequity in that. I’m already close though, so I’ll make it work until we have the opportunity to do this naked. With more privacy. Just as the tingles begin to spread, Randy backs off. I groan and grab for his belt buckle, but he breaks the kiss and puts one wide palm on the center of my chest, urging me to lie back on the bench.

  “What’re you doing? I was almost there.” I’m snappy. It makes him smile.

  “I said I was gonna use my fingers.” He pushes them under the elastic of my leotard and skims the hot, damp skin between my legs, still barred by a pair of tights and panties. The palm on my chest moves lower, his fingertips gliding over my left breast and down my stomach. When he reaches the leg hole, he slips that hand under as well.

  Finding the waistband of my tights, he yanks them roughly over my hips, pulling them down until they reach the crotch of my skating outfit. Then he goes back for my panties and does the same.

  “Do you have any idea how often I think about fucking you like this?”

  Randy has a thing for my skating outfits, as evidenced by our current situation. We’ve had sex while I’m wearing one of my competition leotards—the kind with all the sequins and decorative crap. There weren’t any panties or tights to get in the way, though. It was just a matter of moving the crotch to the side and getting in there. That sex was insane.

  “I assume it’s a daily thing,” I say snarkily.

  “You assume correctly.” He shifts the material so he can access my Vagina Emporium. Threads strain and snap.

  “Careful.” I don’t want my outfit totally stretched out in the name of an orgasm.

  “I’ll buy you a new one when I wreck this.”

  I note there’s no if. “I don’t have a spare here.”

  Randy is either too focused on getting his fingers where he wants them, or he’s ignoring me. I assume it’s a combination of the two. He caresses my clit with the back of his fingers as he tries to make room for his hand. I gasp and bite my lip to stifle my moan. The walls in here are cinderblock and great for acoustics, not so great for covert orgasms.

  He fumbles around in his back pocket, producing his phone.

  I prop myself up on an elbow. “Seriously? You need to do that right now?”

  “You actually need to ask that question? This is like…” A few facial tics follow, and he opens and closes his mouth before the words finally come. “If they actually made figure-skating porn, I’d have a real problem.”

  “I think you already have a real problem.”

  Randy disregards my sassitude and hits the record button. “This woman right here is my number-one fantasy, and she’s all mine.” He maneuvers his hand in the limited space between my panties and tights, which are cutting into my thighs, they’re stretched so tight.

  “But only for the next ten minutes,” I add.

  He pushes two fingers inside and offers a low “fuck, yeah.”

  I bow up off the bench; the loud tearing sound should concern me, but he does the finger curl. Then he drops his head and suctions himself to my clit. This is fairly atypical behavior for Randy. Usually he’s a tongue-only kind of tease with the eating out, so he must be going for maximum effect. I honestly try not to come right away, but he has all the control over my body, so I freefall into orgasm heaven. I bang my head on the bench and bring my hand to my mouth, biting the side of it to muffle my moans.

  Randy doesn’t stop sucking even after I’ve come. Instead he keeps going, aware he’ll be able to make me come a second time with minimal effort. Usually he gives me a short reprieve, though, allowing me to come down from the high before he sets me off again. Not so this time.

  Tears pool and run down my temples at the pleasure-pain. My entire body jerks and trembles as orgasm number two bitch-slaps me. When my motor function returns, I shove my fingers in his hair and yank, disconnecting his mouth from my oversensitive clit.

  He makes this low sound, kind of a growl, like he’s pissed that I’ve stopped him.

  “Jesus, Randy, what’s gotten into you?” A full-body tremor—like a legitimate aftershock—makes me lose my grip on his hair.

  His expression softens and then becomes panicked. “Lily? Shit.”

  The fullness of his fingers inside me disappears. My muscles contract around nothing and an odd, soft sob gets caught in my throat. He reaches out as if to caress my cheek, but realizes my orgasm is still all over his fingers, so he wipes his hand on his shirt. At least it’s white.

  He leans over me, sweeping shaky fingers across my temple. His eyes are wide, his thick swallow audible. “Did I hurt you? Are you okay? I didn’t mean to get carried away. I just wanted to make you feel good.”

  I still his hands. “You didn’t hurt me.”

  “But you’re crying. I made you cry. That’s not supposed to happen.”

  “You wouldn’t let me stop coming. It was intense.” I motion to my face. “These aren’t pain tears, they’re overwhelmed-by-sensation tears.”

  “Oh.” His relief leaves him on an exhale. “I didn’t know that was a thing. So you’re telling me you can come so hard you cry?”

  I’m actually surprised this has never happened to him before. His orgasm missions, along with his former reputation with the bunnies, are legendary.

  There’s something going on with Randy. He’s been extra needy lately. Only once this week have we not had sex multiple times a day. Maybe he’s stocking up in preparation for being on the road again once the new season starts. I’m not complaining; I just think there’s more to it than him being horny. The alarm on my phone goes off. It’s my final warning.

  “Oh, God. I need to fix myself and get out there!”

  “Told you I could get you off before you went on the ice.” The smug tone is there, but he’s missing the usual smirky smirk.

  My legs are wobbly as I stand and adjust my panties, then my stretched-out tights. The waistband on both are shot. They’ll have to go in the garbage after this. Also, a huge snag runs from waist to thigh on my right leg. I don’t have an extra pair of tights with me, so I’ll have to deal. The crotch of my leotard is loose now, too, which definitely isn’t optimal—especially since I’m about to teach pairs. I haven’t done pairs in years, so I’m relearning a bit as I’m teaching.

  Tonight I have a one-on-one session with Finlay to work on some of the lifts. Last session his partner, Giselle, twisted her ankle, so she’s taking some time to recover. I didn’t want Finlay to miss this session, though.

  I look up at Randy and gesture to my outfit. “Thanks a lot; this whole thing is ruined now.”

  “I’ll take you to get new ones.”

  “Hell of a lot of good that’s going to do me now.”

  “I’m sorry.” He jams his hands in his pockets and rocks back on his heels. “I got excited thinking about the cottage and spending time with you without work getting in the way.”

  I don’t want him to feel bad for making me feel good. I share his enthusiasm, even if his timing could be better. I put a hand on his chest and give him a quick kiss. “I know. Me too. I gotta go, though.”

  I close my locker and head for the ice on unsteady legs in a skating outfit that fit a lot better less than ten minutes ago. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror before I push through the doors to the rink. My hair is all messed up in the back, so I quickly finger-comb it. My tights are sliding down because the waistband is so loose. My cheeks are flushed, my lips swollen, my eyes bright. I can smell Randy’s cologne all over me, and I’m pretty sure I also smell like an orgasm, but that could all be in my head.

  There’s nothing I can do about it now. I’m annoyed that I look like such an unprofessional mess, but hopefully Finlay is too focused on learning the routine to notice.

  He’s already out there when I hit the ice. Finlay turned nineteen recently and has been skating competitively since he was a child. He’s an incredible skater, but I know he’s worried about the lifts and the jumps. Since I know this routine, my boss called in a favor and asked if I would be willing to coach him and his partner. They’ve already made state, and now they’re looking at nationals. Those two are magic together when they’re on. It’s an honor and a big deal to be asked to do this. Summer hours mean I have the time, so I couldn’t say no.

  Finlay looks antsy. He’s been great, if not a little unsure of himself, the two times I’ve worked with him and Giselle so far. I’ve heard he can be a bit of a perfectionist, and hard on himself and his partner in terms of expectations. I’m hoping this session will help keep things smooth and easy between them. He’s feeling some guilt over Giselle’s minor injury, even though it wasn’t his fault.

  He glances at the clock. I’m two minutes late. “I thought maybe I got the time wrong.”

  “Sorry. One of my laces broke; I had to relace with a spare.” The lie comes smoothly.

  He looks down at my skates, eyes moving over my outfit. My freaking tights are already falling down. Randy’s going to hear it from me later.

  I clap my hands together. “I guess we should warm up.”

  “I was a little early. I’ve already warmed up.”

  “I meant together. I’ve been on the ice all day, so I’m about as warmed up as I’m going to get, but I’m happy to do a few laps to get us in the groove.”

  “Oh, right. Yeah, of course.” He bobble nods. “That sounds like a good idea.”

  I skate a tight circle around him and then speed off down the ice, adjusting my damn tights. At least the little skirt covers some of the issue. I’m kind of nervous about this session. It’s one thing to teach other people how to skate together; it’s totally different when I’m the one involved in the togetherness. Pairs requires a lot of trust and communication. It’s been a long time since I’ve had to skate with another person. And now, on top of dealing with the newness of this situation, my attention is divided because my tights keep sliding down, and all I can think about is how that happened. Goddamn Randy and his magic tongue and fingers.

  Still, all I have to do is invest an hour, and then I’m free for the weekend.

  After a few laps around the rink, the guy in the sound booth cues the music, and we start the routine. Finlay has the first part down, but whenever he has to make physical contact, he gets all twitchy and unsure of himself, especially when there’s a lift.

  “Are you okay today?” I ask when he fumbles me for the third time.

  “Uh, yeah, just…there’s a guy in the stands, and he’s been watching us for, like, ten minutes. He looks really familiar.”

  I look around the arena and spot Randy sitting in the stands.

  Randy rarely stays to watch me, and I have a feeling it’s no coincidence he’s decided to stick around while I’m teaching Finlay. His neediness this week, his sneaking into the locker room, the “impromptu” orgasms he couldn’t wait to give me, my smelling like I’ve doused myself in his cologne—all this leads me to believe his behavior is orchestrated and intentional. And I don’t know quite what to make of that.

  When the song ends, I suggest we take a short break and grab some water.

  Finlay looks to where my problematic boyfriend is sitting. “That guy totally looks like Randy Ballistic.”

  I roll my eyes. “That’s because he is.”

  His eyes go wide. “Holy shit. What’s he doing here?”

  “Being a pain in my ass.”

  “Huh?”

  “He’s my boyfriend.”

  I almost enjoy his shock. “Wow. I wasn’t sure if that was a rumor or not.” He gestures between us, looking understandably nervous. “So is this a problem?”

  “No. He’s waiting because he doesn’t have anything better to do. I’ll be right back.”

  I skate over to Randy, because I’m not exactly sure it isn’t a problem, based on what happened in the changing room. He’s reclining in a chair one row back from the boards with his arm slung casually across the seat next to him. He flashes me a smile that’s anything but easy.

  I point a finger at him as soon as I’m close enough. “I’m on to you.”

  His eyes flare slightly before he cocks his head to the side, giving me his signature grin. “On to me? It’s not like I was hiding out. I’m just watch—”

  I cut him off. “Don’t even think about lying.”

  He opens his mouth and then closes it. Speechless Randy is new. He has a quick retort for just about everything.

  I take advantage of his silence. “Yes or no, you ambushed me in the locker room so I’d smell like you and orgasms when I came out here to practice with Finlay.”

  “What kind of name is Finlay, anyway?”